


Brave

by rosie_berber



Series: An Assortment of Destiel Ficlets and Codas [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x12 Feels, 12x15 Coda, British Men of Letters, Confession, Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Feelings, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), season 12, season 12 coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 05:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10456071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: Some errant thoughts and feels re: living in a post "Stuck in the Middle (With You)" world. Because not having that onscreen interaction between Dean and Cas since is sort of killing me.





	

* * *

 

“Because,' she said, 'when you're scared but you still do it anyway, that's brave.” - Neil Gaiman, _Coraline_

 

* * *

 

Mick’s hands cradle the glass of ale in front of him. His eyes are fixed on the specks of grime and blood still caked under one of his nails. A souvenir from that evening’s activities.

 

Dean had begrudgingly agreed to mentor the Man of Letters in what hunting looked like beyond tactics and toys. The altercation with the Alpha Vampire had made him recognize that there was a need for him to get his hands a bit dirtier.

 

In exchange, Mick had agreed to be totally straight with Dean. One question answered for every kill. Tonight - Dean had earned four.

 

The grizzled hunter is seated across from him. He takes a long swig from the tumbler - it goes down as if it was water and not whiskey. Dean twirls his fingers at the server to repeat the order.

 

“So,” Dean opens, his voice gruff, “give it to me. The pitch.” The command comes out in a low grumble.  

 

The well-dressed man clears his throat before beginning to do what he does best.

 

_Let me paint you a picture. Of a world without monsters, or demons, or any of those little buggers that go bump in the night. Of a world where no one has to die because of the supernatural. Of a new world, a better world._

 

Mick stops there, as he always does. Leaving Dean waiting for a next line - an important detail. It never comes.

  
“That’s it?” Dean asks before chasing the comfort the last few drops of liquor provide.

 

Dean’s now empty glass reminds Mick of his own. He uses his pocket square to wipe away an  errant fingerprint left behind by a less than thorough dishwasher.

 

He sips at the head of the beer casually before he responds.

 

“Our organisation - we aren’t exactly encouraged to add our own flourishes.”

 

As always, he is calm and collected. Frustratingly so.  “It work?” Dean huffs out, his fingers impatiently drumming on the sticky tabletop.

  
Mick chuckles softly, licking his lips from his last drink before responding. “Not often. Not right away.” He smiles at their server as she drops off Dean’s refill. “That’s three - one left. You haven’t been exactly prudent with your inquiries tonight.”

 

Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Tired I guess. Taking out that pack of werewolves and having to make sure your ass doesn’t get killed - takes a lot out of a guy.”

 

Dean hopes the Brit believes him. That he’s tired from the hunt - not from the sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days  he’s had ever since he agreed to align himself with their outlet.

 

When he dares to look up at the other man to see if it worked - Mick’s face doesn’t give him anything to work with.

  
Dean chooses his next words carefully. Because today’s hunt was good - but having intel on the BMoL would be even better.

 

“The happy ending pitch - you said it doesn’t work right away. I’m guessing that means - more often than not - you end up getting what you want. How?”

 

Mick hesitates before he rests his elbows on the table. But he figures - there was a time and place for manners. Fraternizing after a werewolf hunt in a decrepit roadhouse outside Lincoln, Nebraska - this  wasn’t it.

  
He leans in towards Dean before he divulges.

 

“The pitch - the better world, the monsterless future. It’s about a single moment - the moment your mark..." Mick winces at his own honesty, his seeming comfort in accepting his status as con-man. "When they dismiss that future as impossible. Because it’s in that moment they need to face - no matter how vampires they slay or demons they stab - there’ll always be two more to take its place. Might take an hour, a day, a year - but that moment - it always comes. When it’s too much to take on the world all on your own. When the desire for freedom is no longer stronger than the fear.”

 

Dean takes a swig from his second stiff drink. Much bourbon - few rocks. It burns in just the way he needs.

 

“You’re talking about hunters who put their life on the line every time a case comes their way. Not exactly the type to scare easy. So what you’re selling - I don’t buy it.”

 

The tactician studies him, as if trying to assess whether Dean’s being sincere or angling for more information. His professional opinion is that it’s probably both.

 

But Dean has been accommodating thus far, so Mick decides it wouldn’t hurt to elaborate. Just a little.

 

“Fear is the most powerful weapon in any arsenal. There’s fear of death, sure - but that’s just one colour among many. But everyone’s worst fear comes in a different hue.”

 

Dean sees the palette of his own nightmares. Same colours that have been in his mind since that night in the barn when he -- when Dean almost lost him, again. Extinguished blue. Invasive onyx. Expanding crimson and scarlet.

 

“The angels and demons - the monsters - all things not quite of this world - they know how to use fear to control human choices, to direct our behaviour. How many times one of them told you something’s inevitable or irreversible? That there’d be cosmic consequences for your non-compliance with their orders?”

  
_Cosmic consequences._ One of the last things Billie warned the Winchesters about. Before Castiel plunged an angel blade into her flesh. Before the angel -  once again - defied the natural order for them. _For him._

 

Dean’s wrested away from that particular source of angst when Mick begins to speak again.

“The fear they - we - capitalize on? Dying - sure, being outnumbered - of course. But more than anything. It’s that moment every hunter fears most - of being the last one left. That all of it - every missed birthday, every unreturned phone call, every relationship that ended before it began - that all of it was for nothing. When hunters say yes to us - and they all do - it’s because they don’t want to be alone at the end. Terrifies them. That's why our way wins. Because - tell me Dean - do you want to be alone at the end?”

Dean responds by finishing his drink in one swift motion, throwing some cash on the table before heading to the Impala’s back bench. To sleep off the hunt or this conversation - he’s not sure which.

* * *

 

 

Dean dreams in blue and black and blood again that night.

After four hours of trying to hear anything but that broken confession - the one that cycled through his mind over and over, Dean stirs. The intense ache that seems embedded in his spine reminds him that the days of the car being an adequate bed are behind him.

 _  
_ The Impala’s wheels spin towards Lebanon as night blends with dawn. Dean’s head aches - less from the whiskey than Mick’s words still ringing within his mind.

 

Words about fear. Words about the end. How they came out in a cadence less arrogant than certain. How that stubborn streak in Dean tried his damndest to shove those declarations aside.

 

But even the rumble of the Impala doesn’t help to tune out the feeling he had worked so hard to bury. That feeling that’d been eating away at him like a curse since the snap of Michael’s lance.

 

Of what he’d regret most if he was the last one standing.

 

The answer’s got his foot pressing the gas pedal harder - because if not now - it’ll be never. He’s got to get there before he loses the nerve.

 

He’s got to prove to himself that he’s still calling his own shots.

 

Dean drives towards Lebanon - but he doesn’t pull into the Bunker’s garage. The engine powers down in the parking lot of a motel - the one where he’d been staying since. The one he’d insisted he needed - because sometimes even families need space.

 

Dean had been too cowardly to try to convince him otherwise.

 

Fear’s kept Dean away from this motel room door. Fear’s kept Dean at as much of a distance as he can manage for the better part of the decade. Fear’s kept him silent all those times he should have spoken.

 

But when that door opens, Dean casts aside that fear. Because there’s nothing Dean fears more in this world now than having it go unsaid.

 

“Hello Dean,” the angel says.

 

In that moment, Dean is brave.

  
“Cas I -” he stops, to take the angel into his arms. “I love you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am the world's sole Mick Davies stan. Come at me.


End file.
